Demonbane (Book 4) (8 page)

She could hear Torin’s chiding voice in her head. The first rule of thieves. Life before money. There was always another mark, always another house to burgle, another pocket to pick. A dead thief made no profit. Or a jailed thief, for that matter.

But she also knew in her gut that this was different. The Soulbinder wasn’t just another piece of jewelry. The way Kendril and Joseph spoke about it, the glances of fear she had seen in the eyes of the Ghostwalkers whenever it was mentioned…

This time was different.

That
was her woman’s intuition speaking.

She bit her lip hard in the dark, fiddling with the lock until she thought her fingers would go numb.

The doorknob to the room she was in rattled.

Locked. Thank Eru she had remembered to do that when she had slipped inside. Hopefully the guards would assume no one was in here.

The lock on the strongbox clicked open.

Kara held her breath, then opened the strongbox door.

Her heart fell.

There was another pile of papers, some scattered jewelry, and a coin purse.

No Soulbinder.

The doorknob rattled again, more insistent this time.

Kara had to go. She was out of time.

She reached both hands into the safe, and rummaged around amongst the papers.

Something glinted and caught her eye.

She moved a stack of paper.

There it was, cold and red and black yet glowing at the same time, almost in a sickening way.

She reached in and took hold of the Soulbinder with a trembling hand, then lifted the pendant out by its long golden chain.

It seemed somehow more monstrous and evil than the last time she had seen it, back in the pagan temple outside of Stefgarten.

“Got you,” she whispered.

Kara started to rise.

Something hard cracked into the back of her head.

Kara saw a flash of white and a swirl of purple before everything went black.

Chapter 5

Maklavir ran.

His booted feet slipped and tore through the deep drifts of snow that covered the ground between the mansion and the stables. Snow pelted him relentlessly in the face, driving down hard from the overcast night sky.

Everything was going to the Void. It always did. It really was beyond exasperating. For once, just once, he’d like to see a situation resolved without people dying right and left.

But Maklavir had seen Kendril in action too many times to believe the dying was anywhere close to being finished for the evening.

Funny, he actually seemed to remember
enjoying
Candle Ice when he was younger.

Maklavir made it to the stable doors. He took a second to catch his breath. He shivered in the cold air. The frigid wind cut right through his stylish yet impractical clothes.

Curse his good fashion sense. He should have known the evening would end with pistols and sword thrusts. A suit of armor would have been more appropriate attire.

Maklavir reached for the handle to the door. Joseph’s life was in his hands. Whatever vile poison he had in his system, the antidote was undoubtedly in that herb bag of his.

He opened the door.

A panel of wood exploded almost in his face, torn to pieces by a musket ball. Splinters of wood showered out from the door.

Maklavir reacted instantly with the reflexes that he had honed throughout his life as a diplomat.

He yelped and leapt back from the door.

There was a shout from his right.

Maklavir swung his head around.

There were two guards running towards him. One held a smoking musket in his hands.

Maklavir suddenly wished he had the sword. The one he had taken off the guard back in the house, the one he had given to Kendril in the kitchen.

The sword Kendril had
refused
to use.

Why on Zanthora hadn’t he grabbed it again?

Maklavir didn’t take time to answer his own question. He leapt into the stable, then pulled the shattered door shut behind him.

“We found her, my lady.” The guard saluted, then nodded back down the hallway. “Down there, the master bedroom.”

There were several guards in the hallway, searching every last room, corridor, and closet on the second floor.

Bronwyn had to admire their efficiency.

She turned to the man who had spoken to her. “Has Baron Dutraad regained consciousness?”

The man shook his head. “Not yet.”

Bronwyn nodded as she walked quickly down the hall. Captain Mayer and the other guards were downstairs, rounding up the rest of the Ghostwalker’s friends, or at least whomever Nadine hadn’t already cut into ribbons.

It was so nice to have a fanatical, cult-trained assassin at one’s disposal. Bronwyn didn’t know how she had ever got on without one.

She stepped into the master bedroom.

The steam-powered glow-globes had been turned back on, illuminating the room in their harsh white light. Candles were more traditional for the festivities of the evening, but then at this point the gathering downstairs was largely a farce. Bronwyn wasn’t even sure if it was still going on or not. She didn’t really care.

She stepped up towards the strongbox, and looked down at the beautiful redhead who was sprawled unconscious on the floor. Pieces of a shattered vase were scattered on the floor around her head.

“I-I-I th-thought she was a r-r-robber.” Dutraad’s wife Mina, in nothing but a dressing gown with a shawl thrown over her shoulders, sat huddled on the edge of the bed. “I did-didn’t—”

“Shhh, my lady,” said Bronwyn soothingly. She came near and put a hand on Mina’s shaking shoulder. “You did the right thing. I’ll have the men take it from here.” She looked up at one of the guards. “Take Lady Dutraad out of here, please.”

The man nodded, then led the sobbing woman out of the room.

Bronwyn looked at one of the other guards who stood nearby, halberd in hand. “Is she dead?”

He shook his head. “No, my lady. Just knocked out.”

Bronwyn drew a thin dagger out from underneath her dress, then bent down over the unconscious thief. She rolled the woman over onto her back.

Kara gave a soft sigh, but otherwise didn’t stir.

Bronwyn smirked. She pressed the edge of the dagger against the helpless woman’s throat. “We appear to have a caught a pretty little magpie.” She reached down and picked up the Soulbinder from where it lay on the floor. “I think I should hold onto this. We wouldn’t want to lose it.”

The guard looked down at Kara with a sneer. “Should I…dispatch her, my lady?”

Bronwyn thought for a moment, then smiled. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I have a better use for her.” She rose, the dagger still in her hand. “Bind and gag her, then bring her to the carriage.”

The guard saluted. “Yes, my lady.”

Kendril threw a pot of water on the fire, then grabbed another iron poker and tossed it into the coals. Even as he did, his eyes roamed the kitchen, his mind appraising everything he saw.

He needed time. Olan and the other Ghostwalkers would come blazing in. Frankly, he thought Olan had been jumping at the opportunity. He just had to hold out here until Maklavir could get back, then get the poison to Joseph—

Kendril grabbed a bottle of spice, popped the cork and put it on the counter. He had no way of knowing what kind of poison Nadine had had on her blades, or how quickly it would work.

He had no way of knowing how long Joseph had until he died.

Ironically, the only person who might know was Joseph himself, with all his knowledge of herbs and healing. Of all the people to get poisoned, why did it have to be him? Why not…Maklavir?

Kendril whipped out a kitchen knife, and tested the weight of it in his hand. “How’s he doing?” he called back over his shoulder to Lillette.

Silence. A rustle of clothing. Then two rapid footsteps.

Kendril hadn’t stayed alive as long as he had by ignoring the little things. It was the little things that kept a man breathing. That, and listening to the still small voice that always seemed to warn him when there was danger.

The still small voice was screaming at him now.

Kendril leapt to one side.

There was a flash of metal. Lillette came at him, a drawn dagger raised high to strike.

Kendril caught her wrist, forced it away, then smashed the girl forwards into the cabinets.

She cried out in pain, twisting in his iron grip and spitting like a viper.

Kendril slammed her hand against the wooden cabinets twice.

Lillette dropped the dagger. The weapon fell to the thrush-covered floor.

Kendril grabbed the struggling woman, and pinned her arm painfully behind her back. He smashed her up against the cabinet.

“You’re
dead
, Ghostwalker,” she gasped.

“Sir!” One of the mercenaries ran up to Captain Mayer. “We found them. The kitchen.”

Mayer gave a curt nod, then motioned to four other guards clustered near him. “Alright, let’s go. You heard Lady Brionne. No prisoners. We kill them all.” He motioned to the musket that one of the guards held. “No guns, either. There’s been enough shooting already. The Baron’s party guests are starting to get jittery, and we wouldn’t to ruin Candle Ice for them, would we?”

The men snickered.

Mayer put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “We do this with steel. Remember, at least one of this lot’s a Ghostwalker. Don’t underestimate him, but don’t be afraid, either. He bleeds just like the rest of us.” Mayer drew his weapon. The steel made a soft hiss as it left the scabbard. “We are on the eve of a great moment of history in Zanthora, my brothers. Have faith. The goddess rises.”

“She rises,” they repeated in unison.

Mayer looked down the hall behind them.

The music, laughter, and conversation from the great hall continued merrily along. Neither the gunshots nor the disturbances in other parts of the house had yet rattled anyone’s nerves.

Mayer shook his head. “Fools. Their time has come, and they don’t even realize it.”

He turned back to his men. “Let’s go.”

The snow pattered against the sides of the stable. There was a single lantern inside, hanging by one of the stalls. Its watery light cast deep shadows across the length of the room.

Maklavir stumbled through the interior of the stables past stall after stall in a blind panic.

He could hear the muffled
crunch
of the guards’ boots as they stepped through the snow outside.

Maklavir dove into a stall, and backed himself up against the wall.

A horse neighed nervously, stamping its feet at the unexpected intrusion.

Think
. He had to think.

The herb bag. Joseph’s life was in the balance. He had to get it back to Kendril.

Maklavir looked around desperately.

There. Against the stall next to his. A brown bag. Maklavir recognized it immediately.

He started to get up to grab it.

The door to the stall kicked open, letting in a gust of cold air and stray snowflakes.

Maklavir ducked back behind the stall.

“I know you’re in here,” boomed a voice. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Maklavir felt his heart leap. He recognized the voice.

It was the first guard, the one he had hit with the shield in the hallway back in the house, just minutes before.

Something told Maklavir that the man was not coming back to thank him.

The boards whined under the mercenary’s weight as he stepped into the stable. There was a sharp
click
as a gun was cocked.

Maklavir glanced over at the bag again.

So close, yet so far. There was no way he could reach it without leaving cover.

Maklavir glanced around the corner of the stall.

The first guard was already in the stable. The second guard was framed in the doorway behind him. Snow drifted in lazily over his shoulders.

The guard turned, and waved back to the second mercenary.

The man nodded, then disappeared from sight.

Maklavir frowned, puzzled.

Why weren’t they both coming in? It was almost as if they were—

Covering a second door.

Maklavir looked back down the row of stalls.

There. How had he missed it before?  A back door.

Right now, it was his only way out. And he had just seconds before the second guard blocked off any escape he might have.

“Come on,” the first guard called out. “Make it easy on yourself. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Maklavir took a look at the bag, then the rear exit.

“Cone to daddy,” the mercenary sang out.

Maklavir leapt for the bag.

“The goddess rises,” Lillette spat. She twisted and turned in Kendril’s firm grip. “She will destroy you and this city.”

Kendril bent the young woman’s arm back even further.

She gave a cry of pain.

All traces of the sweet kitchen maid were gone. The hellcat that Kendril had pinned against the wall seemed like a wholly different creature.

“What goddess?” Kendril snapped. “What cult are you with?”

Lillette smiled despite the pain. She gave a mocking laugh. “You really don't know, do you? Indigoru will feast on your soul. Her light will fill all of Vorten, then all of Zanthora—”

Kendril glanced nervously at the stairs leading up to the kitchen.

Two servants started to come in, saw him, then shrieked and ran off.

“Indigoru. Mystery religion. A pleasure cult,” Kendril snarled. “I should have known. How many of you are there? How many people in this house are with you?” He gave a savage twist of her arm. “
Talk
.”

The girl looked back at him. Her brown hair fell in ragged curls over her face. “How many in this house? Wrong question.” Her voice lowered. “How many in the
city
? Closer. How many in the
country
? Better.” She gave a laugh, strange and almost crazed. “How many on the
continent
—?”

Kendril felt his insides turn to ice. It couldn’t be. This was beyond one cult, beyond one little cell of Seteru worshippers. Lillette was talking about a conspiracy so grand that it boggled his mind.